– Nice.
He gestures to a beat-up dictionary on his desk.
– A word a day, that's my rule. What did you think, that I would spend the rest of my life calling people mah nigga? Self-improvement is one of the few strategies a black man can use to advance in America. And I am advancing, Joe.
– Sorry I asked.
– My apologies, I didn't mean to lecture.
– Whitney Vale.
– Yes, Whitney. Nothing too outre. As it was she was heavily pierced and tattooed, to put her in leather would have been redundant. In her first session we tried two styles: the Catholic schoolgirl, and the ravishing romantic. The contrasts with her natural esthetic were striking in both costumes, but, unsurprisingly, she soon developed a following for the schoolgirl look. We found some counterparts for her, male and female, and shot a few videos.
– What was her demographic?
– A young, troubled-looking girl in a plaid skirt? I assume it will come as no surprise that most of her fans had daddy as part of their screen names.
– Could you get me a list?
– As I said, I thought it best to delete her files and records.
He pats his slightly graying fro.
– I could perhaps put together a list of similarly inclined customers? No doubt some of them were amongst her adoring public.
I think about weeding through a list of middle-aged pervs, trying to cull something useful, being eaten from the inside by the Vyrus all the while.
– Never mind.
– Anything else, Joe?
– Know anything about the guy selling nudies of Vale over the Internet?
He shakes his head.
– I expect it is one of her fans who had downloaded her images and now wants to turn a profit off of tragedy. I of course had all of her material purged along with her records. Only prudent.
I take out the picture of the Horde girl and toss it on the desk, making sure it lands close enough to him that he won't have to stretch for it.
– Know her?
He picks it up. Looks.
– I'd say not.
– Maybe without the makeup?
He looks again, squints. Tosses the picture back.
– I'd still say not. That said?
– Yeah?
– This is a high-turnover business and I see a great many waifs looking for a career or extra income. The ones clearly too young, such as this child, are politely rejected at the door. It is possible she crossed the threshold without my knowing.
I take the picture from his desktop and slip it back in my jacket.
– Got it.
He glances at his watch.
– If that's all, Joe?
– Yeah. Thanks.
He leans forward, extending his hand across the desk, sweating from the effort. I take his hand.
– You know, Whitney went out awfully hard for such a young thing, Joe.
I take my hand back.
– What I hear, Chubbs, it had to be that way. What I hear, she was a sick girl and she's better off the way it went.
His hand flies to his mouth.
– Oh, Joe, not that.
– That's just what I hear.
I head for the door.
– You take care of this, Joe, take care of it for good and well.
I stop, the door half open.
– I'm workin' on it.
He puts his eyes on mine.
– Mah nigga.
Dallas is sitting on an old vinyl couch in the reception area. I point toward the office.
– You can go back in.
He tosses aside the magazine he's reading and sniffs into the office. I walk past the girl at the reception desk.
– Hi, Mr. Pitt.
It's Missy. One of the girls from the bondage guy's house. She wasn't out here when I came in.
She's looking better. That ear is never gonna grow back and the smile will never be straight, but she's growing her hair out and it looks like Chubby must have popped for some good bridge-work. Not that he's an altruist or anything, he just knows what's good for business. Take Missy. The other girl disappeared soon after. Maybe she split back to wherever she came from. Maybe she's in a dark apartment right now with a bottle and a handful of pills. But Missy stuck around. The way she looks, there's a market for that, Chubby could have made some nice coin off that. But it would have drawn attention, and Chubby doesn't need attention. But she still wanted a job, so he put her on the phones. Better that than having her turn sour and maybe go talking to the cops. Just business, that's all.
I nod at her.
– Hey, Missy.
Her left hand strays to the side of her head. She tugs absently at the hair, trying to pull it down over the still livid scar where her ear had been.
– Anything I can do for you, Mr. Pitt?
She looks at my face.
I remember the Staten Island house. He'd cut them both, but it looked like he'd taken a special shine to Missy. She would have died soon. Would it be so bad now to tell her Sure you can do something for me. You can let me hook you up to my works and let me tap you for a pint or two of that blood I saved. Hell, she'd probably say yes.
– Tell me, Chubby says any chicken that comes through the door gets sent away?
– That's right.
– You take care of that?
– Sometimes.
I hand her the picture.
– Seen her?
She looks.
– Oh, yeah, sure.
I'm already reaching to take the picture back from her. My hand freezes.
– What?
– Not coming in for work. Just hanging out, waiting for her friend.
– Her friend?
– Yeah, the one that… you know. Whitney.
I ask a couple questions and then I head for the door that will take me to the freight elevator that will take me to the street.
Behind me.
– If you ever need anything else, Mr. Pitt, I'm always here.
I go out the door without saying anything, and I try not to think about how good she smells. Just like food.
Outside I smoke a cigarette.
They knew each other. Of course they knew each other. That's exactly how fucked up this whole thing is.
Missy doesn't know much. She says the Horde girl would come in pretty much every time Whitney had a session. Says she'd wait in the reception area there, read magazines or maybe talk on her cell phone. Says she knew Chubby would be pissed if he knew a little girl was in the building, but she let her stay 'cause she figured the girl was Whitney's little sister. Later she realized they were just friends, but she says they acted like sisters. Like the girl was Whitney's little sister, a little sister who worshipped her big sister.
I smoke a cigarette and look at my watch. Midnight. Early yet.
Chester Dobbs's office is on 14th at First Ave. I get the address out of the Yellow Pages I borrow from a liquor store owner when I slip into his place to buy a pint of Old Crow. I walk over, taking sips from my whiskey in its obligatory brown paper bag. The booze is medicinal. The bite of alcohol and a slight buzz can sometimes take the edge off my hunger. Say in the same way that candy bars help a junkie when he starts to jones.
I cut through Tompkins. Going past the dog run, a girl squatter starts walking alongside me.
– Hey?
I don't look at her.
– I ain't got no change.
– Didn't ask for no fuckin' change.
– Can't have any of my booze.
– Didn't fuckin' ask.
Still walking next to me.
– So?
– You seen Leprosy?
I look at her. She's dirty, ragged, plump with baby fat, wearing combat boots, cutoff fatigues, a Rollins for President T-shirt, a heavy chain runs from one ear to a ring in her upper lip. Sixteen, tops.
– No.
– Hector said he saw you an him talkin' the other day.
– Don't know Hector.
– He says-
– Don't know him.
– Only, me an' Lep been hookin' up most nights an I ain't fuckin' seen him since Sunday. Mean, I don't give a shit cept he has some of my stuff an' if he gonna fuck some other chick I want it back.
But she does care. I can smell it in the salty tears at the edges of her eyes.